the calendar shows a monday.
another plaguey cold rain come thundering down onto the asphalt road on the 19th day of june, washing away all your idealism and you are just so irritated at the rate the rain water is gushing into the drains. there are a thousand umbrellas, hovering above the concrete ground held by the fragile fingers, the tired faces beneath them after another tireless night. a thousands umbrellas running through the heavy traffic, from buildings to buildings, forming a kaleidoscopic display of colorful montage.
the man in his tie suit has just managed to dodge the puddle of splashing water by the roadside, cursing in his own language that rolled off his tongue expertly, like the way he rolled it off to pick up women in the bars at night.
this wet world disintegrates itself like the way your idealism vapourises into the thin atmosphere. and with a tap tap tap of your little red shoes, you do not turned into the beautiful faerie nymph with extraordinary powers, you have no wonderland, you have not transcient through time and from land to land, just as all those fairy tales have promised you since you were a little girl, and you have not met your love under that lemon tree.
but instead you are stuck in your pinstrip suit, a servile nine to five, a new addiction to caffaine, a newly developed infatuation with polka dots, an erotic consumeristic relationship with Coach, a cable tv, a flawless complexion, a revolutionary pastime, a half dozen spoken languages and you still feel indequate. and you are told that, why not go back to the basics, because,
basics is more
basics makes you healthy
basics is natural
basics is non harzadous
basics prevents constipation
basics makes you slim
basics is...
damn basics.
all i want is everything but basics. basics is the consolation to the one paycheck that you never get, basics is the woman you saw at the cafe but never get to know her phone number. basics is the love that you never get to bedded, the fine dining you never afforded, the sweaty limbs after the torrenting make out at the back of the car that never satisfy you, that tyrannical workmate you never get to flip over the table, the imaginery good friends you have chosen over the goddamn love of your life.
basics is still basics.
on the other hand, basics is the one great exculpation you can justify, for not telling her you have loved her more than you have imagined, and the guiltier seems less guilty, or so, when you are kissing another woman but the back of your mind is thinking of another love.
at 530pm in the afternoon, i am still having this pointless conversation to myself, probably to distract myself from running to the food cabinate for the tenth time that i will soon be barred from the pantry boundary, or to keep my eyes from closing. and i realised that if i do not have a pinstrip suit, a servile nine to five, a new addiction to caffaine, a newly developed infatuation with polka dots, an erotic consumeristic relationship with Coach, a cable tv, a flawless complexion, a revolutionary pastime, a half dozen spoken languages, the last thing i want is,
basic.
"where have you been? why aren't you writing anymore?" he asked.
oh no, this is a multi-million question and a nationwide top secret that you are probing. why don't we swap over coffee later tonight? and maybe after that we could go somewhere private and do each other till we come undone.
scheiße, i am feeling better already.
almost.
